


Hardships of Gratitude

by Talimee



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talimee/pseuds/Talimee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Oblivion Crisis is over and Mehrunes Dagon slain. Emperor Martin Septim ascends the Ruby Throne and has a Herculean task before him: Rebuilding the Empire and righting the wrongs his predecessors have made. But is the Empire ripe for a common man with his common ideas?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The low-born Emperor

**Author's Note:**

> Lot's of exposition in this chapter, but I hope not so much to be boring.

 

 

The Imperial Council chambers had always reminded Martin of a stew-pot: round, windowless and with the whole of White Gold Tower above it like a lid. The balcony in the second storey did nothing to ease the feeling of oppression which overtook the young Emperor every time he met with his councillors – which was often – and this time was no different. He let his gaze wander around: Almost all of the seats at the enormous round table were occupied, only the Altmeri ambassador was still absent.

On his round along to his seat the Emperor's gaze met impertinent stares, smirks, wide open eyes and sleep-encrusted ones. Some people seemed eager to begin the day's work, others wished nothing more than to be home again and still others betrayed nothing at all. Those were the ones the Emperor distrusted most.

By and by the whispered conversations stopped and an expectant silence grew in the room but the Emperor still sat in his throne, giving no sign of opening the session. He was waiting for the last council-member to arrive. Not out of courtesy but a battle of wills.

The whispering started anew and the young Emperor felt more than one gaze on him as he shuffled through the pages of today's schedule, giving the impression of being perfectly at ease. Letting his councillors wait was one way of displaying his power over them. Denying the Altmeri ambassador the small victory of disrupting the session was another. Once in a while the Emperor needed to remind his councillors who sat on the Ruby Throne and who wore the Amulet of Kings. Regrettably it had been a lesson he had had to learn on ascending his throne. Without having been raised in the Imperial City, among the Empire's Finest, and without the background of noble upbringing and early court-life every attempt on his side at civility and friendliness had been viewed as weakness and boorish mannerisms.

Because in his heart of hearts he was a farmer's son. And a bastard.

 

His father had been the Emperor, that was for sure, but nobody knew who his mother had been. Fostered from infancy Martin Septim had grown up as a farmer's son, learning just enough reading and writing to get him to study the basic arcane arts when the Talent was discovered in him. But he had never been happy around the bookish learnedness in the University and after quitting it in disgrace he had been driven along before starting to work as a priest and healer in the Temple of Akatosh in Kvatch. There his destiny had caught up with him in form of a gigantic machine of demonic origin which had torn apart the city's wall and led to a slaughter which would give him nightmares to his dying day. The horror of hearing the dying screams of his fellow citizens had only been enhanced upon learning that the Cult which had orchestrated this massacre was doing it to kill him.

The Mythic Dawn had over decades systematically assassinated all descendants of Tiber Septim, leaving alive only the four best protected: Emperor Uriel Septim VII. and his three legitimate sons. And him, the unknown one. Luck had favoured him in the end, when it had deserted his father and half-brothers.

A hero had come to Kvatch when all hope had been lost and this saviour brought about what no one had believed possible: He rescued the heir to the throne, recaptured the Amulet of Kings and finally slew Mehrunes Dagon in an epic battle when the Daedric Prince appeared in the Imperial City itself.

Relighting the Dragonfires by Martin and thus closing the Oblivion Gates all over the continent had felt more like an afterthought after the Champion's battle and the populace surely treated it so – the Emperor had done his duty, whereas his Captain had done a heroic deed. Martin was crowned and peace returned and they could start rebuilding the Empire but, of course, it was never that easy with aristocracy.

 

The big double doors to the hall slammed back and Martin looked up to see his guard captain enter. The atmosphere changed instantly with his arrival and turned from feet-shuffling, low-murmuring impatience to bone-deep fright. Martin had come to rely on the battle-scarred man from the moment he burst into the chapel in Kvatch, looking not human but like a blood-drenched demon. He felt the presence of the Champion as he came to stand behind his throne and noted the change in the councillors' countenances – they feared the Captain and his raw, unearthly power. Martin felt slightly ashamed that he took to such measures to bring his councillors to heel but if he could not command their respect, yet, he would command their fear.

The doors opened again and finally admitted the Altmeri ambassador. Walking with poise, his golden hair oiled and made up in Alinor court fashion and his expensive robes as red as the evening sun the mer gave every impression of being the only important person in the room. Martin Septim caught the latecomer's eye and was greeted with only the tiniest of perfunctory nods and the young man was instantly reminded why else he thought of the council chambers as a cooking pot – he was seething now.

He waited until the mer had barely reached his seat and nodded to his captain.

“My Lords and Ladies!”, the man boomed. “It is the 2nd of Sun's Height in the Year of Akatosh 434. The council session is opened and the Emperor will speak to you now.”

As one the councillors rose to their feet and bowed, respectably curtsied, before sitting down again and Martin cleared his throat.

“My Lords and Ladies, as you all know over the last two months an Imperial census has taken place whose results came to my attention last week. Therefore, our session today will mainly deal with the issue of taxes and the distribution of those within your districts.” He noted the uneasy shifting which took place as here was a topic each and every one of the councillors wished to avoid. He suspected that only very few of them had directly transferred money out of the Imperial coffers into their own pockets but he was a ruler who came from the peasantry and it was to expected and feared among his councillors that more money would be distributed for public purposes than formerly had been the case.

“I do not need to recount the events which have taken place during the Oblivion Crisis and neither need I point out the various devastations which were the result of it. That much can be seen wherever one goes. As leaders of society and those with the ultimate power in this land we have an obligation to do everything in our power to heal the wounds and make Tamriel great again. I therefore decided on a new budget-plan for the areas of your jurisdiction and a new plan of splitting and application of taxes.”

At the begin of Martin's speech the Champion had started to hand out thick ledgers with the Empire's crest on it. He now reached the last few councillors to receive their documents and came to stand behind the Emperor's throne again. Both men silently observed as the thirty most powerful people in the Empire perused the orders laid before them.

Marguerite Jodoin was the first to look up. She was one of the few non-nobles in the council which did not mean that she was powerless. Coming from an ancient family of Breton traders she was rich beyond comparison and newly appointed head of the West Empire Company, which was by far not as influential as her eastern counterpart but held the trade of furs, fish and wood from High Rock and Skyrim in a firm grasp. She said nothing but cast a meaningful look over to Lord Llaram Uveleth whose dark complexion had become even darker with his rising anger.

“Your majesty”, said the mer. “There is a … troublesome bit about imperial prisoners in here.”

Martin nodded. “The Empire uses two-fifth of its prisoners for mean tasks which require hard labour in inhospitable places or are too dangerous for regular workers – mostly mines, if I remember correctly. We will re-employ those for rebuilding everything that was destroyed during the Crisis or has fallen into disrepair by neglect in the years before.”

“But that's nearly all the workforce we have! Not counting those we cannot use because they are too dangerous or stupid or –“

“Maimed beyond recovery. Which demonstrates fairly accurate the stupidity of corporeal punishment, don't you think?” Martin quipped. “If we want to have a functional economic system again in the near future we must be prepared to cut unnecessary businesses down to a minimum to free capacities for rebuilding. Freezing or starving people make bad costumers, as you well know.”

“Sire, you forget that those workforces must be fed and sheltered and overseen – which costs much money. In the meantime the mines will run completely dry and _they_ provide much money.“

Martin admired the mer. One could see that he was every ounce of self-control as he argued with the Emperor about his financial ruin. Uveleth was a Hlaalu-noble who made his fortune with luxury items crafted from ebony or malachite. Drawing workers from those mines would leave him unable to meet demands.

“The money is needed now”, Martin said calmly. He had played this conversation out with the Champion and knew what arguments to expect. “Money made out of sales and re-sales of your precious goods won't be available until next year's taxing has taken place.” _And you have had opportunity to let a big slice of that money vanish_ , he added in the privacy of his head. “I fear, nothing will prevent me from drawing all possible resources together. But, as you will find in the appendix, I might be prevailed upon to spare a minimum workforce if we can draw up a plan for financial re-compensation towards the Empire.” Martin noticed some frantic leafing through taking place around the table.

Uveleth swallowed. “Buying prisoners from you?”

“We don't hold with slavery here in Cyrodiil”, the Emperor chastised mildly, “but you can rent some labourers, if you want.”

This was the last straw. Lord Uveleth jumped up and had surely said some very stupid things had Marguerite Jodoin not chosen that same moment to stand up herself and declare: “Your Majesty, I am at liberty to inform you that the West Empire Company will offer very favourable prices for any goods purchased for rebuilding infrastructure or maintaining workers. Moreover, all goods needed for repair work in High Rock and Skyrim will be delivered for free.” At which point Llaram Uveleth and the Chief Executive Officer of the Eastern Empire Company, Titus Andronicus, started shouting at her.

It took a while for things to calm down again after this.

Equally prone to discussion were the next items on the agenda – from the amount and application of taxes (one-tenth of every septim taken in was to be distributed for public interests) to naming possible candidates for the vacant county of Kvatch (the Champion having declined the offer) – and all occupants in the room were more than ready to call it a day when the Emperor raised his voice again.

“A last item still remains until I can give you leave: With so much to remember and to change in your districts I cannot let you go without the assistance of a trustful attaché. Within the next few days you will receive the name and a short résumé of the person who will help with and oversee every fiscal transaction taking place in your jurisdiction and be your constant connection to me.”

A dreadful silence fell in the room. Twenty-nine heads were fixed on the Emperor's face, daring him to mean what he had just said and fearing it all the same. Expressing mistrust to everyone in such a way … It would be without precedence.

After a while the Argonian ambassador rasped out: “This is –”

 _Preposterous. Unbelievable. An affront of epic dimensions._ Martin watched her struggle to bite back the words he could hear as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud. He wanted to know which one it would be but the Argonian's gaze wandered sideways, connected with the impassive stare of the Champion and she faltered.

“– just what we were about to propose”, she mumbled embarrassed and sank deeper into her chair.

It was the first time since Martin's ascension to the throne that an order of his passed the Elder Council without being challenged.

 

~*~

 

“They're not going to sit quietly and let it go,” the Champion said levelly. “Now, that you're starting to empty their pockets …” He swirled his clay goblet thoughtfully before taking a sip from the red liquid within and put it back on the table with a disgusted face. He watched in silent horror as Martin took a deep draught out of his goblet. The Emperor apparently enjoyed the cheap wine and the Champion remembered what the other man had told him once about the foul self-brewed concoctions that had circulated in the Arcane University's dorms: made of kitchen waste and what the apprentices could scrounge from the alchemy labs and so ghastly in its taste that one _hoped_ it would burn away all taste-buds.

Once in a while they snook out of the Imperial Palace and ended up in one of the sleazier back-alleys to share a drink and some quiet conversations about things that could never be discussed in public. Today their searching feet had taken them to the “All Saints Inn” in the Temple District which was conveniently ill-illuminated and ill-reputed, although the latter was more owed to the quality of drink and food than the general company.

Martin took one more sip, refilled his cup from the jug and fixed the Champion with a hard stare. “They won't know what hit them when I'm through with them.” The hard determination on his face stayed a bit longer but melted by the Champion's incredulous stare and Martin coughed to mask his own growing embarrassment. “Let's start again: Have you ever dreamed of having the power and the money to change everything that irked you?”

The Champion took a few seconds to consider this but said: “As far as I can remember, I changed what irked me – I _had_ the power, if not the money.” He could see that this was not the answer the other man had expected.

Martin leaned back in his chair and watched his friend for signs of smugness or such but came to the conclusion, once again, that the Champion in his close-lippedness was simply stating the truth. “Lucky you”, he said at last. “You escaped one of the darker sides of human nature, it appears. Not me, though. Living on a farm will do that to you: the hunger, while others feast, the rejection, because you're not a person of _consequence_ … I was full of jealousy by the time I set foot in the Arcane University and my stint in Daedric worship didn't make it less.” He emptied his goblet a second time. He still disliked that the Champion knew about his less-than-heroic past. “I put that behind me, but I tell you this: I have seen what the peasantry suffers when political affairs go wrong. I have seen tax collectors who would drag the last lousy half-septim out of the pockets of impoverished farmers just to cover their quotas. I have seen people starving because their employers wouldn't pay them enough but rather let produce go to rot just to keep prices high.” A fire burned deep inside the Emperor's blue-grey eyes. “This needs to be changed and finally I have the power to do so and I will start with the Elder Council!”

“If you weren't who you are I would have to drag you out of here to the next guard and fine you either for treason or for being drunk and disorderly”, the Champion said with one of his rare smiles.

“Lucky me. But drunk and disorderly is still possible.”

“Better start soon. If you continue in the pace you have set today, the Council will have hired a killer before the week is out.”

Martin laughed dryly at that but grew morose again in a second. “I hate it that I had to drag you into this whole mess!”, he sighed and shook the last drops from the jug into his cup. “But Jauffre's dead and Ocato on a round-about-trip in the Summerset Isles fixing whatever diplomatic relations we have left there. You have seen my councillors. You are the only one I can trust.”

The Champion eyed him for a second, then motioned Martin to follow him out of the tavern. After a few steps away from the tavern-door he asked: “What makes you so sure that I am trustworthy?”

“Because you never asked for a reward”, came the straight answer. “Not even when I offered you Kvatch. Your disinterestedness does you credit and shows that you truly care for the Empire. Why else do all those things I asked of you? Why else help me get on the throne?”

They moved on through the knee-high mist that came up from the Waterfront every evening and crept with cold fingers under their cloaks. Only a few stragglers were still on the streets, the guards on their rounds and the one or other beggar. It would take years to repair the multitudes of damage that Dagon's hordes had inflicted upon the Temple District. As they waited for the night-guard to open the heavy doors to Green Emperor Way Martin turned around to watch the Temple of the One and the Dragonfires which burned brightly behind its multicoloured windows. Now, at night, they were a silent beacon in a sea of mist – a thing of such beauty that words failed Martin to describe them. They were almost invisible by day.

“I knew that taking over the throne and trying to reform the Empire would be a struggle. But I never expected this much hostility between myself and the Council”, he continued as they wove their way between the countless graves which dotted the ground around the Imperial Palace. True to their enchantments the hedges, formed like the heads of former emperors, followed them with their leafy gaze.

“Not all of them hate you. And you are loved and respected, worshipped even, by citizenry and peasantry alike.”

“Who knows for how long? 'Always remember that the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading', I red once and I fear the author is right.“

Their arrival at the Palace made further talking difficult and so they remained silent until they stepped into the Emperor's rooms near the top of White Gold Tower. Martin, already getting a headache from the inferior wine, bade his bodyguard good night and vanished deeper into his suite while the Champion made himself comfortable on the small cot that was his bed when he stayed overnight in the Palace. A few minutes after the candles were blown out both men sank into Vaermina's sphere.

 

~*~

 

A few hours earlier and in another tavern, half the City away, another circle of friends sat around a table richly bedecked with assorted fruits and wines but only one candle, which gave barely enough light to illuminate the corner they were occupying let alone the faces of those attending this meeting.

“That preposterous bastard!”, ejaculated one of them in a rough whisper.

“Easy on your words, man”, said another with the languish voice of the thoroughly well-bred. “It is still treason to call him that.”

“But it's the truth!”, wailed the first. “Sitting there, bold as brass, and ordering us to beggar ourselves. And all the while parading this _abomination_ in front of our eyes.”

“You lost me there.”

“His bodyguard!”, hissed a third.

“And what does he have to do with our present predicament?”

All people around table fell silent and watched the second speaker with incredulous stares – as far as it was possible to discern. Then the first voice broke the silence in an explanatory tone. “You only arrived here a few weeks ago. You didn't see.”

“Didn't see what exactly?”

Silence spread once more around the table and more than one of its occupants reached for his or her drink. It was as if they were afraid of even remembering it. The Argonian was the first to talk: “I happened to be in White Gold Tower at the time, looking south. I didn't see the particulars …”

“But I did”, the Dunmer continued. “I was one of the few Ocato grabbed in that mad chase of his. I was outside the Temple …”

“… when Dagon appeared …”

“… and was slain by the Champion”, finished the Altmer with the tone of someone bored to tears by repeated news. “An impressive feat, to be sure, but Daedra can be banished, you know.”

“You still don't understand”, the Breton insisted. “He single-handedly banished a corporeal Daedra-Lord. I cannot describe it, but being in the same room with him …”

“… is feeling like a mudcrab in front of a dragon, like insignificant dirt.”

“Now, really!”, chided the Altmer. “He is but a man and since he is content with playing the Septim's lapdog we should better think about those ticks our benevolent ruler is trying to heave onto us.”

“They don't matter”, the Dunmer hissed. “Most likely they will be Blades, whatever they may say themselves. But the Blades are stretched thin and even with them you get a foul apple once in a while. But _he_! The Champion!” He drew a shaky breath. “We know it is silly, but none of us can help those stupid feelings of awe and terror. That's why we approached you.”

“You know the right people – your kind usually does – you have the power to call in favours … Just get rid of the _bodyguard_ and we will see about the _other_ one.”

The Altmer leaned back and for a second his eyes gleamed like malevolent lights. “Very well. But I might call in a few favours of my own in the near future.”

“Whatever you want! Just get it done.”

The conspirators stayed for a few more minutes, finishing their plates and drinks, talking about unimportant things, before they left the tavern one by one and as each of them headed to different parts of the City's noble quarters the stench of treason and repeated history stayed behind in their wake.

 


	2. An Attempt at Assassination

There was a knock on the outer doors and the Emperor looked up bleary-eyed from the contract he was reading. He exchanged a look with the Champion after which the latter went through the ante-chamber of the study and opened the heavy oaken doors to reveal the impassive face of Martin's chamberlain, Edmonde Marborel.

“Your Majesty, Count Leyawiin's attaché wishes for an audience. He says, it is of the utmost urgency”, he added when he saw the Emperor's stony expression.

For a moment Martin wondered if he should flatly refuse to receive the man but decided against it. He knew, by and large, what the old courtier was going to speak about – had spoken about at least half a dozen times so far – and since he was going to refuse his request, he thought it better to deal with the matter privately than have a discussion dragging through the already long hours of his daily audience in the throne room.

He motioned to Marborel to send the man in.

“Sir Gratian!”, he called through the two large rooms. Standing up and rounding his massive desk he walked into the ante-chamber and guided the white-haired knight towards a small sitting area while the doors clicked shut behind the retreating chamberlain. “Don't tell me Count Caro has sent you to me about the Borderwatch business, again?”

“I fear, it is so, Mylord”, answered the old man still out of breath after the long climb from the lower parts of the Imperial Palace. “What else could be more urgent and important than the Legion-support my master has asked for several times already?”

Martin felt himself tensing up. “I am not in the habit of justifying myself”, he said with carefully clipped tones. The hospitality of a few moments ago had vanished almost completely. “I am exceedingly tired of this matter. But because you are an esteemed and much decorated knight, Sir Gratian, and for the sake of future conversations NOT taking place I will make an exception and tell you straight from the heart: There are a great many things that are more important than subduing a few farmers in the middle of nowhere. Borderwatch has twenty, maybe thirty, inhabitants and twice as many sheep, as they tell me, whereas whole provinces are threatening to overturn Imperial rule. Pirates and vigilantes roam the coasts from Senchal to Stros M'kai and cities and villages are devastated while their citizenry lives in squalor.” He had started to pace around in his office during the last sentence, ticking off the list on his fingers but now he came to a halt in front of the old knight and looked him squarely in the eye. “ _Tell me!_ Why is Caro so obsessed with this hamlet that he forces an old man to visit me about it _every. Other. Day_?”

“It's still about the Skooma-trade and the alleged secession from Cyrodiil, isn't it?”, Martin asked with a sneer when Gratian just stared at him white faced.

The old man gulped. “I presume it, my Lord, although Count Caro has not deigned himself to take me into his confidence as …” He faltered.

“Tell him that my answer remains the same. The Legions are needed elsewhere.” Martin turned away and walked back to his desk. “On a further note tell him that as long as it remains in the Empire itself, I don't care whether that wretched town belongs to Cyrodiil, Elsweyr or even Alinor on Summerset Isle. Tell him, that I understand his concern about shortened routes for skooma-smugglers from Elsweyr to the Imperial Province but smuggling takes place everywhere and it's better to know of one route for sure than of none. Oh, blast it!”, he growled. “I'll write to him myself and may Zenithar give that he'll see reason!”, he added darkly as he plunged down into his chair and dragged a slightly rumpled but fresh sheet of paper from under the piles on his desk.

After the old man had gone, the freshly sealed letter from the Emperor clutched to his breast like a treasure, Martin turned to his friend and asked: “Is he insane?”

The Champion took some time to think on an answer. “Caro's policy is quite provocative in the eyes of Khajiits and Argonians alike.”

“That's what I meant!”, cried Martin. “When the pot on the stove is boiling over one does not add more wood to the fire!” Martin stalked around in his study and gestured over to the armchair that Sir Gratian had so recently vacated. “I swear to any ten gods you can name that Caro is trying to force me to send him a Legion with his stupid behaviour. Did you hear that he enforced new fees to any Khajiit caravan that crosses the border from Elsweyr? And that any gathering of more than three Argonians in Leyawiin needs a special permission? Most families are larger than that!”, Martin said incredulously.

“I heard you curse the man through two closed doors when the report arrived”, the Champion said dryly. “But try to under-”

“I _do_ understand the man's predicament!”, Martin interrupted the Champion. “Half of his subjects were forced to live under Cyrodilic rule when our borders were moved. And their complaints have been ignored in the best case or suppressed with soldiery in the worst. And this has gone on for years and years and along comes he and now _he_ has to weather the results of decisions made long before he was in power. But this is impossible! He cannot _undo_ the injustices others have committed decades before him because no one remembers how it was before. So he has to weather it as best as he can and hope.” Martin's voice, which had been nearly a shout at the beginning subsided into a defeated sigh at the end and the Emperor sunk back into his chair, looking utterly spent.

“You are not talking about Caro.”

“Him. Me. What's the difference?”, Martin answered darkly. “His county and my Empire are both standing on feet of clay. But if he thinks he must risk a rebellion, let him have one on his own account.” He righted himself in his seat and reached for a thick file. “And anyway, what could they do apart from traipsing around the wilderness or sitting like a duck near the border?”

 _Burning the town as an example to everyone else who wants to secede_ , answered the Champion in the privacy of his head. He wandered over to the floor-length windows that lead to a small balcony outside the Emperor's study and watched the people roaming the public parts of Green Emperor Way. His gaze flickered here and there, selecting new targets every other second and thinking about the most efficient way to eliminate them. A lifetime of fighting had left him with a certain set of mind.

“I didn't mean to rant”, said Martin after an hour of silent work. “I just had to get a bit of steam off my chest.”

The Champion turned round from his silent vigil and flashed a curt smile to his friend.

“Why don't we go for a walk later? A bit of fresh air and exercise?”

“How about sneaking into the Imperial Library tonight? There is supposed to be a second volume of 'The Lusty Argonian Maid' somewhere hidden in there. With wood-cuts!” Martin's eyes gleamed mischievously like they hadn't in months.

“Sneaking around is no fun since most of the librarians are blind.”

“They don't need to see you when your armour makes enough noise to wake the dead.”

 

~*~

 

“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such a short notice.” The night outside the window was stifling hot and full of odours from the open canals of the Imperial City. At day the burning sun and lack of wind made it unbearable to move outside one's quarters and at night Lake Rumare's vapours impregnated the air so much it felt like iron bands laid around one's lungs. But the voice of the speaker remained calm. Nothing betrayed any discomfort at the temperature or the shabby surroundings of their meeting place. “Please, have a seat, Madame, and share with me a bottle of Dusky Claret.”

The Breton smiled at him over the top of her jewel-bedecked fan. “With pleasure.”

 

“How is your attaché coming along, Mylord?”

“Oh, Geem-Julan was right all along. There is a foul apple in every barrel – even when there's 'Blades' painted on it.” A red and a golden pair of eyes met over the rim of exquisite crystal flutes before each mer took a sip from the light blue liquor within.

“I am delighted to hear that.” The Altmer waved a hand languishingly and a goblin appeared out from a dark corner of the room, dressed in a plain white shirt and presenting a golden platter with de-clawed hands. “Truffles, Mylord?”

The Dunmer selected a small piece of the delicacy and stared after the retreating form of the slave. “I am impressed that you were allowed to keep it. Cyrodiil is pretty much against slavery.”

“But that law is about _people_ , Mylord, not _animals_.” They smiled at each other in shared elven supremacy before continuing to talk.

 

“Normally, I refuse to be summoned in the middle of the night”, growled the Imperial and sank heavily into the plush chair. His brown glare flew across the small table to meet the cool golden gaze of the Altmer opposite to him.

“I thought with the turn-over of noble hunting ground for farming and the transfer of tax-gathering to the Imperial Legion and Administration Office you would cherish some news of the kind that can only be shared under absolute discretion.”

The Imperial smirked and leaned forward in his chair. “Well now, that is the kind of news I like best!”

“I thought so. You know about the forthcoming elevation of Savlian Matius to the new Count Kvatch, of course.”

“Exactly what I expected from that ragtag-Emperor of ours”, growled the man and slammed a hand with thick and be-ringed fingers on the table.

The Altmer was unabashed. “The important thing, however, is that he will travel to Kvatch for that occasion.”

 

“Which is a no-man's-land since the city's destruction”, added the Argonian with a rasp in her voice that indicated pleasure. “Bandit-raid?”

“Maybe as a decoy to lure the Champion away from His Precious Highness. Once Martin is securely installed in castle Kvatch a skeleton-crew of Legionnaires will suffice to protect him and I will arrange it for the Champion to be away.”

His listener's eyes diluted in the early morning light and he asked himself whether it came from the joy of conspiring or from the distilled Hist-sap she had been drinking. “And the Septim-spawn? How will we get rid of _him_?”

The Altmer gave her a cool little smile. “That is were we will need your unique abilities – your close proximity to the Emperor as a member of the Elder Council and your natural resistance to poison.” His elegant hand drew away from where it had been resting on the table to reveal a glass vial. It was even smaller than a hazelnut but it held the power to lay waste to an Empire.

 

After his last guest had gone the Altmer sat deep in thought for a while before he took a small piece of parchment out of his pocket. He spoke softly into it for a few moments before folding it and sealing it with a rune.

“Zog”, he said coolly to his slave, “prepare a bath. Ice-cold water, three sprigs of lavender, two hot towels. Then deliver this note.” He waited until the goblin had gone before he went in the next room where the bath was ready in a large copper tub. His embroidered robes slid off strong shoulders, caressed a sinuous body and pooled around slender legs. As he sank into the ice-cold water with a moan the mer felt utterly unperturbed by the empty stares of the dead house owners around him.

 

~*~

 

A distant rumbling made Martin look up from the inauguration speech he was compiling for his visit in Kvatch and as he looked out of his coach's window he beheld a landscape totally changed from the light given off from the low-hanging black and yellow thunderclouds. They were still in the fertile lands west of Skingrad and as he turned his head to glance along the road from where they came he could still make out the distant vineyards which had provided the most excellent wine he had tasted only two days ago at Count Skingrad's dinner table. Now the land around him, lush greens and vibrant colours by sunlight, had taken on a dark and menacing air and felt ripe with tension as the thunderstorm continued to build up.

The weather had been unstable and their mayor adversary since they left the Imperial City and whilst they had had their encounters with bandits and dangerous beasts along the roads the weather had seriously slowed them down with muddy roads and upturned trees. They had been almost a full week late already when they arrived in Skingrad and it looked as if this day's journey might end several hours sooner than expected as well, throwing them back in their schedule even more.

'The Emperor never errs and is never late', Martin remembered Ocato's instructions given to him just a day before the mer had left the Imperial City for Alinor. Martin had tried to make himself believe that the whole world revolved around his being but it just made him feel ashamed with himself and disgusted with everyone who actually thought that way. He suppressed a grim smile as he pictured Ocato's reaction to his actions yesterday when, just downhill of the brooding remnants of an Oblivion Gate the trek had come to a halt on the mucky road as several of the lumber wagons had sunk up to the naves of their iron-studded wheels. Without much thought he had shed his robes and helped to shovel enough of the mud aside to create a groove, carefully applying frosting spells as they went along to harden the surface enough for the heavy wagons to be pulled out. Without his regalia the drivers and soldiers had not recognized him and he had loved the muscle-work and spell-casting much more than anything he had done since he left the Imperial City. But the spell was broken, or rather he himself put back in place as one of the Guard Captains happened to walked by and nearly dropped dead as she saw the Emperor in muddy boots and breeches amidst common folk. One shout of the woman had been enough to break the camaraderie and leave him alone in a circle of withdrawing wary people. He had felt like an intruder.

A heavy bump jostled him from this trail of thought as his coach hit a particular deep pothole in the road. A loud swear from his coachman a second later and a shaky halt made Martin wonder if the wheel had been damaged. He put aside his writing tablet and felt around for the hatch to open the coach door as a guard came up to the window and, saluting, declared that there was a major uphold in front of the caravan.

Out of habit Martin threw a glance over his shoulder to ask the Champion whether he would come along for a short stroll along the hedgerows which flanked both sides of the cobbled road but was reminded once more that the Champion had was in Elsweyr. Instead he motioned to the soldier to open the carriage door.

“Follow me”, he said once outside and the young man nearly fell over his feet in his haste to follow Martin who strode purposefully through the mingling crowd of coaches, wagons and cohorts to the front of the trek where Edmonde Marborel was arguing with the Imperial Captain in charge.

“What's the matter?”, he asked as he reached the men.

 

Gilm-Na poked her head outside her carriage and hissed when she saw what was most likely to be yet another hold-up on their way to Kvatch. Who would have thought that an organized journey of the Emperor and several high-ranking members of the Elder Council could be delayed again and again!? She climbed out onto the street and hissed once more as she saw several soldiers in the process of erecting tents and clearing space for watch fires. She turned around to her attendant but saw that the haggard Breton woman had already departed the coach and was giving orders to her staff to erect Gilm-Na's pavilion and prepare everything for yet another night on the road.

Unable to vent her frustration in that direction she stalked to the front of the caravan where she was sure to find the Emperor and the reason for this new muck-up. A gust of wind fell into the road from the surrounding hills but not the cold wind made her shiver but the tightness of her schedule that was getting smaller and smaller by the day. Kvatch, the Councillor had said. In the festivities surrounding Matius' inauguration as the new Count Kvatch, he had ordered. Without the Champion's interference, he had promised. But the Champion would return to his Emperor's side if she waited much longer.

If Gilm-Na hadn't been Saxhleel she would have sworn that her skin broke out in cold sweat as she reached the head of the caravan and stared down into a fathom-deep ravine on which bottom she could still make out the remnants of the bridge which had spanned the gorge until recently.

“There's boulders here and trees”, came a shout from the bottom. “They smashed into the bridge and destroyed it.”

“It looks like we are stuck here for the time being”, Marborel summarized and turned to the Emperor who looked just as grim as Gilm-Na felt.

“Blast”, the man hissed under his breath and took a few steps along the ridge towards where Gilm-Na herself was standing. _One push!_ The thought was gone as fast as it had arrived in her head. _One good push and he might die from the fall._

A Guard Captain stepped up unto the ridge and nonchalantly inserted himself between the Argonian Councillor and the Emperor. “Our engineers will start constructing a temporary bridge right away, Mylord.”

“But it will take ages!”, Gilm-Na ejaculated. Both Imperials turned to her and the Emperor nodded in dark agreement. “I have a better plan”, he said. “I'll take a score of Legionnaires along with horses and continue to Kvatch.”

“Now, Sire, you know full well, that …” The man's voice faltered as the Emperor fixed him with a hard stare.

The heavy rain that had threatened to fall for the last hour finally made up his mind and started to pour, which had them scurrying back to camp. Gilm-Na found herself tagging along behind the Emperor, his chamberlain and his personal guard as they walked briskly towards the Emperor's pavilion. Thankfully, it had been fully erected already, greeting them with a plush carpet over thick planks and a lighted charcoal brazier in the middle of the floor. Brass and silver lamps hung from the poles and made the silken hangings which adorned the insides of the pavilion glow in rich and plentiful colours. Everywhere she looked, Gilm-Na could see either beautifully carved wood or gold-woven tapestries or crystal and glass as sparkling as the stars. She was accustomed to luxury but this …

Without a second glance the Emperor marched through what she now perceived as an anti-chamber, as he drew away a heavy curtain to reveal another equally luxurious room behind.

“Make yourself at home!”, he called from beyond and Gilm-Na found herself cautiously looking around to see that a pair of servants had arrived with folding chairs and were already setting a small table with a light meal. She had just sat down when Edmonde Marborel re-entered the room with a dry towel and offered to dry her off while she waited for the Emperor to return. The wait was not long and soon Martin Septim came back and sat himself in the chair opposite her. He had changed into robes of a faded blue and smiled at her over the laden table. Amidst the opulence of the tent he looked as displaced as a diamond in a chimney-sweeps ear hole.

“May I offer you a robe?” he asked with a polite smile. “Your clothes are drenched.”

Gilm-Na forced herself to shake her head. The man was so easy-going and casual! She was perfectly happy with hating him from afar but now, almost alone with him in his private rooms, she felt awkwardly insecure and exposed.

“Suit yourself”, the Emperor said with a wry smile and unfolded a napkin. “But I want you to stay a while longer. I haven't had any chance yet to talk with you about several matters in Blackmarsh and would greatly appreciate your opinion.”

Now that was a definite order to stay and Gilm-Na felt her dislike of the man trickle back a bit. His mentioning of Blackmarsh reminded her of the upheaval his royal decrees had caused in her homeland's affairs and her own. She settled back into her seat out of which she had risen in expectation of going home, when a crack of thunder interrupted them, followed by a sharp sulphurous smell that even Gilm-Na made clap her hands over her snout to avoid breathing in the fumes.

The Emperor instead was out of his seat instantly and ran head-first back into the chamber he had vacated recently. Gilm-Na wasn't sure but she thought to see a blue glow around the man's hands as the flaps closed behind him. A split-second later the guard ran after the Emperor, sword already drawn, but the half-expected, half-feared sounds of battle failed to emerge from the next room. Instead a tinny voice, distorted with rage and hatred, started to speak. Now Marborel set down the heavy candlestick he was holding and walked sharply away from the table to stare between the half-open curtains, where Martin Septim and the intruder were talking too quietly to understand.

Gilm-Na was half-way out of her seat to investigate the disturbance when she suddenly realized that she was unwatched. And at a table, laid with a meal for the Emperor. Her claws unthinkingly clasped the small pendant around her neck where she had hidden the vial. _Drop it into his wine!_ , her thoughts urged her. _Forget Kvatch! You will never get there before the Champion returns. Poison him here and now, just make sure that the poisoned wine is in your cup as well. Or scarper! Hide in Blackmarsh. When the power is back in the hands of the Elder Council you will return a hero and richer and more influential than ever. This end justifies any means._

A minute later Marborel turned on his heels and marched out of the tent, followed swiftly by the guard. Gilm-Na's gaze wandered to the other room and instantly Martin Septim exited it, looking composed again and even smiling. Before she could even think of a question he approached the table and without ceremony poured a glass of wine for Gilm-Na and himself.

“Good news, councillor!”, he said triumphantly and raised his glass in a toast. “The Champion slaughtered the last remnants of the recent Wild Hunt. Valenwood is safe again and the Champion is on his way back to Cyrodiil. Even as we speak he should have arrived back in the Mages' Guild in Skingrad.”

Gilm-Na felt the familiar cold dread pool in her lower abdomen as she listened to those news with an impassive face. The Champion was less than two days of travel away. Since he only had to convey himself he might be here as soon as tomorrow! She had done the right thing then.

She mechanically raised her glass in answer to the Emperor's toast, raised it to her snout and drank as she watched the man imbibe in his demise.

He had time to put down his glass before she could see a first flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He then clutched his hand to his midriff as the poison began burning through his stomach walls, as she knew it would do.

The chairs clattered to the ground as both of them jumped up but the only thing he could do was shakily gripping the sides of the table to steady himself. Gilm-Na however only heard his painful grunt as she fled towards the tent's entrance. On no account could she been found next to the dead Emperor without appearing to be calling for help.

“…” She clawed at her throat, puzzlement and panic rising as she found her voice gone. A hand landed heavily on her shoulder and spun her around. She locked eyes with the steel-blue fury in the Emperor's eyes as his other hand closed around her throat.

Growing cold, colder, numb.

 

As the Champion stormed into the tent minutes later he found Martin writhing on the floor, retching and clawing at the ground. He hurried over and manhandled him into a chair but Martin was so weak he instantly slipped out of it again. With a grunt the Champion hoisted Martin up into his arms and carried him over to his camp bed, where the man coiled in on himself.

“Did you make yourself vomit?”, the Champion asked concerned. “You knew it would do more damage coming up than going down!”

Martin feebly shook his head and dry-heaved. “Came back itself”, he whispered hoarsely.

The Champion sighed and took in his surroundings. His gaze flickered over the upturned table, the broken table-wear and came to rest on Gilm-Na's still form.

“You killed her”, he said quietly.

Martin's answer was a heave which could have been a sob.

The Champion watched his liege for a few moments with a blank expression. “I'll fetch your physician”, he said finally and went outside.

 

 


	3. Wheels in Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather longer Chapter this time as I had the choice between this or having a quite dramatic moment in the middle of the next chapter. This is also covering quite a stretch of time. Soooo, this is actually the pendant of a second movie in a three-movie feature. XD  
> Nevertheless, enjoy.

Chapter 3 - Wheels in Motion

 

Hours later the Imperial City laid in uneasy slumber. The thunderstorm which had raged over Martin's party in the beautiful West Weald had had lost its ferociousness by the time it had reached the City and the mild drizzle only added to the sultriness of the weather. The lake was still, not even the smallest of waves lapped against its shores and in the City itself not even the thieves seemed eager to move on their rounds.

Silence reigned also in the Arboretum, apart from a drip here and there, when the meagre rain had sufficiently collected for a drop from the leaves or petals of the rare plants which were exhibited here. Yet, shadows could be seen moving along the gravel paths between the stone effigies of the Eight who had been essential in creating the mortal world. Their unseeing eyes were transfixed on the middle of the garden where, under the stony face of Talos, the shadows coalesced into a small group of robed people.

“I don't understand why we have to meet here of all places, and in the middle of the night!”, hissed one of the people and broke the Silence spell. He carefully pulled the hood of his robe deeper into his face – more an act of drama than of concealment as they all knew who they were.

“He is late”, muttered another.

Before the third and fourth member of their group could add anything the shadows along the Arboretum's walls sprang into life and dozens of lanterns were uncovered, dousing the plaza with fiery light. The four people in the middle drew together as they were surrounded by Imperial Legionnaires and a choked whimper could be heard as the Champion of Cyrodiil stepped into the circle.

“I am placing you under arrest for treachery against the Empire and conspiracy to murder the Emperor”, he said coldly into the ringing silence. “Will you come quietly or do we have to force you?”

“How dare you!”, hissed the Dunmer. “You have no authority over us! Members of the Elder Council enjoy diplomatic immunity!”

“They do. But you are no longer members of that illustrious circle. Emperor Martin Septim revoked that right from all of you.”

Shocked silence reigned a moment. On several of their lips formed words like “He can't do that!” or “The Emperor only has veto-rights regarding the councillors!” and even “You can't prove anything!” but the Breton cut in before those last words could be uttered.

“Where is that traitorous High Elf bastard?”, she spat.

“He is well away from the Imperial City. And Skingrad. Far away from anything that could associate him with you.” The Champion pulled a small piece of parchment out of his armour and unfolded it. “Councillor Gilm-Na is dead. Upon searching her personal affects this list was found with conspirators in on the assassination attempt. Upon searching _your_ quarters we will find considerable written conversation that will support all accusations against your circle in court.” On a gesture from the Champion the Legionnaires advanced, two to each councillor.

“This is ridiculous!”, the Dunmer ejaculated. “No one will believe that we were stupid enough to leave written reports! You are using us as cat's paw to bully the rest of the Council. And the court trial will only serve that purpose.”

“It will exactly do that”, the Champion admitted with a cold sneer. “For the public it will also serve as a confirmation that no-one is above the law. But be consoled that the Emperor will see that no harm will come to your families and useful employment is found for them after you're gone.” With that he spun around and walked briskly away, not seeing the ashen faces of the four conspirators as they were finally dragged to the dungeons.

 

“You told them what!?” Martin jumped up from his armchair in rage but had to grip the edges of his desk as he was wrecked with a wave of nausea. The poison had done considerable damage to his intestines and the hurried travel on horseback to Kvatch had made everything worse. But he was not to be distracted from his anger. Instead he sank down into his chair again and glared at the Champion as much as possible through a haze of darkness before his eyes until it subsided. “The wretches must think we'll drag their children away to the mines!”

“And even this would be a greater mercy than they have a right to!” It was the evening of the next day. Barely thirty-six hours had passed since Gilm-Na's demise and the Champion had just come in to make his report of last night's proceedings. Even he, with his godlike strength showed faint signs of fatigue and dark rings under his eyes. But, just as Martin, he ignored his fatigue in the wake of their argument.

“Stop that thought!”, Martin ordered. “It is horrible enough to know that some of my councillors conspired against me. I will not turn their whole families into traitors by treating them as convicts before they have done anything wrong.”

“It could be seen as a weakness”, the Champion cautioned. He stood at attention before the Emperor's desk but stepped nearer and handed Martin a glass of water, when he saw that the other man was too weak to stand up. Martin nodded curtly and dissolved the contents of a small sachet in the liquid before downing it in one go.

“The traitor's fortunes and worldly possessions will be seized, of course, and put under Imperial administration”, Martin continued. “But their spouses will be sent back to their respective families and the children will become wardens of the Empire, raised according to their status in respectable and loyal families. Everything else”, he raised his voice above the Champion's starting objection, “would be unjustified.”

“Traitors breed traitors and are wed to traitors”, the Champion insisted. “By sending the spouses home and the children elsewhere you're spreading their treachery and give them reasons and resources at hand to plot against you. Again.”

“Leniency shows a greatness of mind, which, hopefully, will humble them enough to rethink the ways of their imprisoned family members.”

“You are making yourself dependant from the mechanism of the mortal mind!” The Champion nearly shouted but was brought up short as Martin brought his hand forcefully down on the table between them.

“Enough!”, he ordered. “I'm tired of the argument. The traitors are going to be imprisoned in Blackrose, their families scattered, their wealth given over to the public benefit. That is all.”

The Champion stepped a few paces away and stood to rigid attention next to the door. A jolt went through Martin and he felt momentarily guilty at having pulled his superior rank over his friend but he felt that this was a point where he could not yield to his captain's advice. He looked down at his desk and tried to concentrate on some reports regarding pirate sightings in Topal Bay. After a few minutes, however, he could not bear the icy silence between them any longer.

“Time will tell, which one of us was right”, he said in a conciliatory tone.

The Champion's gaze flickered shortly towards him but Martin was looking down and did not see it. “Yes”, the man said finally.

“Who helped you in finding them out?”, Martin asked a short while later.

“The Altmeri ambassador, Lord Eironwae.”

“Really?! I thought he hated my guts.”

“You are still his Emperor.”

 

~*~

 

There is a saying that “time flies when one's having fun.” If so, Martin often thought bitterly, he was having the time of his life. He rose early in the mornings, wrangled with politicians, merchants and nobles all day long and when he fell exhausted into bed late at night, he was half convinced to wake next morning to news of some catastrophic development which destroyed any progress he had made the previous day. Weeks flew by in a struggle for progress and before he noticed summer had been replaced by autumn.

But slowly and steadily life in Cyrodiil was on the rise again. The harvest, while not being as plentiful as usual, was sufficient enough to feed people through the winter and for sowing next year. Rebuilding had started in Kvatch, houses had been shored up and made winter proof, others had been stripped down for reusable building materials. Even the multitudes of refuges which had flocked into the fortified cities after their homesteads and villages had been ravaged by the Daedra had been provided for. Martin desperately tried to keep remembering the positive things his rule had accomplished so far but every few days something happened that threatened to unbalance things.

“Tell me again.”

“The citizens of Blankenmarch, a very small village near the right bank of the Niben, have vanished. Apparently all of them together.”

“So what? Maybe they left for Leyawiin? Life in the Lower Niben is not easy right now.”

“It is Count Leyawiin's report that brought the matter to our attention. They are not in Leyawiin.”

Martin's look darkened with the mention of Count Caro. “So they went to Bravil instead: Nearer the Heartlands, less a maniac of a count.” He stood up and walked over to a small table and poured himself a glass of wine. “Let me guess: This report came attached to a new demand for Legion support?”

“Yes.”

“Godsdamnit! Will he never stop?!”

“The evidence is somewhat puzzling: Apparently no personal effects were missing – clothes, valuables, wares were still in the houses, together with various small stashes of Skooma and Moonsugar.”

Martin halted in the process of emptying his goblet. “This is no coincident”, he said darkly. “I bet Caro let some inconvenient tenants vanish and planted the evidence afterwards to get us to believe his harebrained illusions of smuggler wars. Whatever he says, I won't buy it.” He gestured vaguely towards the sheaf of parchments the Champion was holding.

“You would not have spoken like this two months ago”, the Champion stated. “You would never have accused someone of guile.”

Martin sighed heavily. “You're right. But as much as I hate to admit it – I cannot personally care for each and every person living in the Empire. Whatever happened to the people of Blankenmarch, I cannot undo it.”

“But you can order your Blades to investigate it. And I would advise for that.”

“Why?”

“If Caro does not lie, then the people of Blankenmarch actually vanished without a trace. Immigration is unlikely since all things necessary for relocating to another place of living were still there. Gang warfare between Skooma-traffickers is also unlikely, since those tend to leave bodies behind as a warning to other rivals. Also, Skooma-smugglers would never leave the drugs behind.”

Martin had watched the Champion with a shrewd look in his eyes. Before saying anything however he walked back to his desk and pulled an atlas of the Lower Niben out from under a high stack of parchments. He leafed through the book until he came upon the page for Blankenmarch and “Hmphed” under his voice. “You're thinking of Argonian guerilla tactics?”

“Yes. They did similar things during the Arnesian War.”

“I remember”, Martin said darkly. “They raided Dunmer villages and camps in Blackmarsh, killed everyone but left any goods and buildings untouched.”

“Since they stood on Blackmarsh ground and were therefore part of Blackmarsh.”

“One would say that could be applied to the Dunmer in those houses as well.”

“Yes”, said the Champion. “But that was the point: The Dunmer were not _wanted_.”

Martin closed his eyes and let himself fall backwards into his chair. “By all that is good and true in this world, please don't let it be some crazy Argonian freedom fighters who we will have to deal with! I cannot have that! I'm getting some very worrisome news from my agents in Blackmarsh.” He looked at the Champion with a wry grin. “There are rumours floating around Archon and Soulrest claiming it was the combined effort of Hist and Argonians which drove the Daedra out and closed the Oblivion Gates. Those same rumours state that the people of Blackmarsh – or the kingdom of Argonia, as they call it – owe no fealty to an Empire which has not helped them in dire need.”

The Champion raised one eyebrow. “I can't remember seeing any Argonians with Dagon and me in the Temple District. Or any trees, come to that.”

“I can't recall those at the Lighting either”, Martin added. They shared a chuckle but Martin soon grew sober again. “I have half a mind to let them have their freedom, if they're so bend on it. They'll soon see that it's nothing but hassle”, he said and pinched the bridge of his nose. The wine did not suit him well tonight.

“And the other half?” the Champion asked dryly.

“Slap some sense into them”, Martin shot back. “We'd have a war at our door the instant Blackmarsh came into independence. The Empire has protected the use of Argonian slaves in Morrowind for far too long but with Morrowind remaining in the Empire we'd have to take sides against Blackmarsh.” He stared into the middle-distance for a moment. “I cannot believe they want that. Even with the Imperial Navy out of commission they cannot hope to win a war against us.”

“Maybe they count on support from other sources”, the Champion ventured. “Elsweyr. Valenwood. Maybe even the Summerset Isles – in short, all non-human races which consider themselves oppressed by the Septims.”

“Oh, _come on_!”

“Tiber Septim destroyed Alinor on Summerset Isle with a Brass Golem. And then he was made a God.”

Martin sighed. “They dredge up the oldest things.”

 

~*~

 

“… and in the aftermath of the riot the city of Blackrose proclaimed itself as a free state in the New Kingdom of Argonia and no longer belonging to the Empire and to you.”

Shock was written plainly over the young Emperor's features and it was finally the Champion who stepped in: “How many prisoners were freed?”

The Councillor's look travelled back and forth between the two men before Martin signalled him to speak.

“The message is incomplete, your Highness. Our spokesman from the Arcane University said that the teleporting link to Lilmoth's guildhall broke down during the transmission. They suspect a kind of crude muffling spell and are working on it to remove it. We strongly suspect however that several of the high-security prisoners have escaped and have banded together with the separatists.” The man fumbled with a thick roll of parchment he had carried under one arm until now and unfurled it. “I have brought the most recent census from the Rose; roughly 2400 prisoners in total are held there, most of them local bandits who were convicted of multiple charges but our most pressing concern are the 156 high-security prisoners. Quite a few of them have been involved in Jagar Tharn's treachery, come from quite influential families, like the Council members you have send there, others have a reputation for being very powerful and dangerous mages. If these persons have been freed we should expect not only very strong resistance but also quite a large number of well-fitted mercenaries and tactical warfare against us.”

Martin closed his eyes in a moment of defeated silence before he waved the Councillor out. “Tell me, could it have been any worse?”, he asked as soon as the heavy doors closed.

“Only if they had a dragon with them”, the Champion answered dryly.

Martin pushed himself out of his seat and walked across the room, opening the door and addressing the guard outside. “Dispatch a runner to the Imperial Legion Commander. I want to see him at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, Sir!”

 

The days that followed trickled by abominably slow as soldiers from all corners of Cyrodiil were drawn together to form a Legion strong enough to cut through the rebellious cities in Blackmarsh and to bolster a new Imperial administration in Blackrose. The baggage for the small Legion was sent on its way soon enough, but the soldiers were slow in coming, giving the young emperor more than enough time to fret over his decision.

“You can't go back on your orders”, the Champion said one evening after Martin had worried all through dinner about the justification for the march. “It would make you appear fickle and weak.”

“And the one thing an Emperor must not be is weak, I know”, Martin said bitterly. New lines seemed to emerge on his face every day and he had a withdrawn look all around him. He pushed his plate away and walked over to where a big table littered with maps was awaiting tomorrow's war-council. He shakily leafed through a list of Argonian cities who had claimed independence from the Empire during the last week. The movement had gained considerable speed and support during the last days, with more and more towns and villages swearing fealty to the so-called New Kingdom of Argonia, with Blackrose and Archon being the major two cities in the upheaval. His gaze stuck on a short report from the Lilmoth Mages' Guild about ship sightings in the Topal Bay, heading East.

“If we only had a way of coming at them unawares”, he murmured despondently. “It would save countless lives but as it stands we either have to sail from Leyawiin or Tear”, he pointed to the utmost eastern city in Morrowind, “or march forcibly through all of Blackmarsh. Either way the rebels will know of our coming days beforehand.”

“And with the current situation all around we cannot hope to besiege the towns.”

“Yeah. Suppliers would rather trade with the rebels than our troops. _And_ Archon's got a harbour.” He groaned as his thoughts returned to the abysmal state the Imperial Armada was in.

“A small force could possibly enter Blackmarsh undetected”, the Champion mentioned. “They could try to breach Archon and Blackrose disguised as mercenaries. And people of that ilk _will_ start congealing there.” The Champion felt Martin's sceptical gaze burning on his face but refused to look up from the parchment. “Once inside it should be easy to locate the leaders and kill them. With any luck this will discourage the rebels and snuff out this business before it gets out of hand.”

“It's a suicide mission you're proposing”, snapped Martin and snatched up the map, forcing the Champion to meet his eyes. “And one without a serious chance of success to boot. Do we know who the leaders are? Do we know where they hide? Do we at least know how many they are?” His voice had become more icy with every word. “No, we don't! We know nothing!” He had flung the map aside and punctuated every word by stabbing his finger at the Guard Captain who had taken a step back in the face of Martin's anger but remained impassive otherwise. A few moments passed in which the Emperor's anger seemed to subside to make place for a subdued embarrassment. “Sorry”, he mumbled and bend down to retrieve the map.

“There is nothing to be sorry about”, answered the Champion in his calm and low voice. “You care for you subjects which is commendable.”

A commotion outside the palace made them walk over to one of the many balconies that adorned the Emperor's quarters. A long way down a small group of people was standing in front of the gates, demanding, as it seemed, an audience with Martin Septim but the palace guard was effortlessly keeping them at bay. A few moments later a secretary stepped out of the palace – Martin wondered briefly what the man was still doing here, long after the official council session were over – and spoke to the small crowd.

“They don't look like fugitives”, the Champion mused.

“They are merchants I guess”, Martin answered. “By now all tradesmen with business in Blackmarsh must have heard about the situation. And it is hard not to notice the growing Legion camp outside the city.” All tension seemed to seep out of him as he returned into his study. “Tell me more about that plan of yours. If the lives of a handful of people can help prevent the shedding of thousands I should know about this.”

 

~*~

 

“The Elder Council will scream for my head even louder now”, Martin said with a self-mocking smile next afternoon and nudged his black palfrey into the shallow water which separated the city-isle from the land. Earlier this month the Champion had, with a handful of choice Legionnaires, cleared out the Goblin-den next to the fort south-west of the Arcane University and posted sentries on both shores, making this, for the time being, a secure and fast way to reach the Yellow and the Green Road and cutting the way to Bravil nearly in half.

“They will stop screaming once I return and have Black Marsh back under control”, the Champion said.

“And I'm done with their bickering!”, Martin answered decidedly and spurred his horse into a trot. “They haven't even decided on the Legion's mission itself! The faster we put your plan into motion the better.”

The welcome they got once they arrived in the Legion camp was everything a sovereign and a man could wish for. After the cheering had subsided they were led into the field-marshal's tent for an early supper, some pleasant talk and serious planning later. When they finally exited the tent the sun was far in the west, already basking the world in glorious shades of orange and gold.

“I wish you luck on your campaign, Commander”, Martin said and shook the older man's hand. “May Talos guide and protect you.”

“Thank you, Sire. Coming from the Dragonborn it's as good as a blessing.” The man beamed and the Champion could see how Martin, who had known nothing but strife and sorrow in the last months, relished the appreciation.

The Legion would start next day on their journey south, along the Yellow Road. They would divide into two marsh-columns, the smaller force continuing downwards to Leyawiin under the command of a pretend Champion, to help Caro settle the various disputes in his land while the larger force, almost two thousand men, would marsh with as much ado as possible into the north of Black Marsh, erecting small camps along the major roads to Cyrodiil and bolstering the garrisons of Stormhold and Thorn.

Meanwhile, with half the continent's eyes on the Legions, the Champion, supported by a few selected Blades, all of them trained spies and saboteurs, would dash along secret ways into the depths of the rebellious region, infiltrate the cities of Blackrose and Archon and kill the leaders of the uprising.

Martin had not liked this part of the plan and the Champion's personal involvement even less than the reminder that his loyal Blades were foremost spies and assassins for the Empire.

“I am the only one with a serious chance of success”, the Champion had tried to reassure him last night.

“I don't have to like it”, Martin had answered with a deep frown. Already the lines were edging themselves permanently into his features. “I took the throne with a pledge for open policies and eye-to-eye negotiations. Sanctioning a mission like this is just like the bad old days: putting Imperial interests and Imperial law over everyone else's.”

“We can't –“

“I know! I signed the orders already, didn't I? The only thing left for me is to hope that, once you make your presence known, the Argonians will be frightened enough to re-establish Imperial governance.” Silence reigned between them for a while. “They fear you as much as they should have loved me”, Martin had said with a downcast voice. “Why didn't they give me more time?”

“They are simple people.”

“So I tell myself every day.”

 

~*~

 

“So …” Martin drawled out the word next morning and eyed the two people standing behind the Champion with a carefully blank expression. They looked positively _wild_. “You must be Calda No-Nose”, he said, looking at a giantess of a Nord who, despite her tell-tale name, still had a nose, although it had been broken and smashed so often that it was nearly flat now. “Why the name?”, he asked.

“I used to cut off my victim's noses. In the Arena”, she answered with a shrug and added when she saw Martin's horrified look: “It was a phase.”

“A _long gone_ phase”, the Champion felt compelled to clarify.

“And that young gentleman is Viggo, the Strumpet, I presume”, Martin continued. “I won't ask about the name.”

The young Breton cast him a roguish grin. “Pity”, he purred.

A raised eyebrow was all the answer the Emperor was willing to give. The Champion gestured the two combatants to wait outside and leaned against Martin's desk when Calda and Viggo had vacated the room.

“Quite some characters”, Martin said quietly when he was sure of his voice again. “Where in all Heavens did you find them?”

“We were fighters on the same team in the Arena.”

“Are they trustworthy?”

“They are absolutely loyal to me.”

“Good.” Martin stood up and stretched. There was a persistent crick in his neck which refused to go away. “I wish there was some way of letting you see my Councillors' faces once I introduce them to my new bodyguards.” He chuckled and stretched again. The Champion's eyes followed him as he walked into the next room and re-entered carrying a large bundle over his arm.

“I had this brought up from the Imperial Armoury.” He unfolded a green-grey cloak made from a leathery material. “This was part of the first tax-shipment from Black Marsh after Tiber Septim integrated it into the Empire. It's a gift.”

The Champion took it cautiously and noticed the tell-tale sheen. “It is enchanted.”

“Yes”, Martin confirmed. “Chameleon-spells and some others to tone down that clanking armour of yours. The hide itself is Wamasu and said to be protective against lightning-attacks but no-one has actually tested this.”

“If it is true that the Argonian rebels in Archon ride these beast, I will probably find out.”

Silence began to stretch out between them. Martin's eyes lay on the Champion whose hands were still clenched into the cloak's material.

“What are you going to do about Caro, while I'm away?”, the Champion asked grim-faced.

Martin took his time in answering. When it became apparent that the Champion was still waiting for an answer, he sighed. “With the Legion on its way south he can't complain any longer”, he said non-committally. “It's less than he demanded, but more than he had reason to hope for. If he insists on using them to sweep through the troublesome regions I will --” Martin interrupted himself and sighed again. “Let's just hope that he doesn't. I should think he was more worried about the situation in Black Marsh than about some backwater town skooma-smugglers.”

“And if he wants Legion support for his border to Black Marsh?”, the Champion asked further.

“He shan't get it”, Martin said with the harsh and petulant tone he often used when talking of Count Leyawiin. “I haven given the fake you and the second in command strict orders to enforce patrols along Yellow and Green Road and nothing more. It's bad enough that I send you out to murder some freedom-fighters – I will not descend so far down as to allow warfare against Cyrodiilic citizens, may they be Khajiit, Argonian or Human.”

He got the feeling as if the Champion was still waiting for something but then his friend nodded. “Better you do it this way and let me handle the dirty work”, he agreed. “You still have a reputation to loose.” He smiled wryly and turned towards the door. “I'll send Calda and Viggo in on my way out, shall I?”

“Wait a second!”, Martin ordered and hurried after the Champion. “You weren't planning to go without saying Goodbye, were you?”

A smile curved the Champion's lips. “Of course not”, he said and grasped Martins forearm with his free hand. “Stay safe and may Mara's peace grace your halls.”

Martin grabbed the Champion's forearm in return and then pulled the man into a hug. “Safe return and may the Gods watch over your battles, my friend.”

They remained like this for a second longer before they pulled away, then the Champion was out of Martin's study, out of the antechamber, out of the Tower, on his way to his meeting with treachery and death.

The door opened carefully and his new bodyguards stepped in, wary of him and his mood. Most likely the Champion had given them a few words of advice before departing and Martin was grateful for it. Already he felt listless and insecure and these two felt like intruders. With the Champion gone his only trustworthy consultant had left, the only person in the Imperial City he felt he could talk to eye to eye. If Jauffre had been still alive he would have sent for the old Blade but as it were he would have to face the next months without his most trusted advisor.

“What shall we do?”, Calda asked.

“Just wait in the antechamber”, Martin answered with an indifferent wave of his arm. “I must be on my way to the Council meeting any second, I just …”, he dug around under his parchment-strewn desk and pulled the Amulet of Kings out from under a heavy tome. “Here you are!” He slipped the ornate chain around his neck and dangled the big red stone before his eyes. Lights flickered in it and he made himself believe that they were reflections of the daylight filtering in through heavy curtains but a tiny voice in the back of his head told him otherwise. He knew the Lore about the Chim-el Adabal of course and he had felt … a very particular feeling when he had donned the Amulet for the first time.

It was said that the Red Diamond, the centre-piece of the Amulet, contained the soul of every Emperor or Empress who had ruled the Cyrodiilic Empire since the day of Saint Alessia, roughly three thousand years ago. It was also said that with the coronation of a new ruler his or her soul was bound to the ones already in the stone. A frightening thought, even though Martin was sure that the last bit could not be true. He still felt like himself and quite alone in his head.

He slipped the pendant under his robe and shuddered as the stone settled on his skin. With an acute awareness he felt a feeling of nervousness slip over him and settle deep in his stomach. He took a look around his study but everything was just as it had been seconds ago.

“Your Grace …?”, Viggo asked uncertainly.

The Amulet was growing heavy. He wrestled it out irritably and was about to fling it aside as his glance caught a reflection in the stone and was captivated. He saw an army: Inside the stone but at the same time directly in front of his mind. Banners, footsoldiers, heavy wagons buried deep in snow, the stink of burning wet wood and thousands of people, the roar they made as he thrust his fist into the air, dangling from it the Amulet of Kings, lava-red in the evening sun. He was Tiber Septim at Sancre Tor and knew he would be Emperor.

The scene changed and was still the same. A storm of ice cut into his face and stole the warmth from his breath even before it had left his mouth. Everything around him further away than a few feet was swallowed by a moving wall of snow but he knew nevertheless where his army was – even it this wasn't true for his enemy.

“Still no news of their stronghold?”, he yelled over the raging storm. Both his commanders – the Colovian and the Nibenean – shook their head and he turned around to his captains. For a second he could actually see his army of joined forces from all around Cyrodiil, the Imperial Province that bore his name, stretch away all the way down into the valleys of Bruma.

“Call your men to arms”, he bellowed. “And let them take cover. The Akaviri main force will cross the mountain pass today and we will teach them a lesson they'll never forget.”

Suddenly the sky was glaringly white and he shielded his eyes from the midday-sun. Blood trickled down his hands, his arms, was smeared across his face as the sticky feeling told him but he waded on nevertheless. His arms ached but still he swung his sword left, right and centre, mowing down fighting and fleeing Ayleids alike. His goal was the horizon and the incredibly tall White Gold Tower that seemed to cut the sky in half.

“Kill them!”, he screamed in a female voice. “Hunt them down like they hunted us for centuries!” A new roar erupted from around her and she saw Pelinal Whitestrake and Morihaus dash through the next line of merish soldiers, leading her army of slaves to victory.

 

He came to with a gasp and for a disturbing second he wasn't sure whether he should be breathing at all. It was strange to feel one's chest move up and down with something as simple as taking a gulp of air.

Where was he? Who was he?

“ _Your Grace!_ ”

Memory came back and Martin pushed himself up. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and forced his head up. A Nord-woman! A Foe! He flayed his hands at her before his memories came back to him and he burrowed his head in his hands. The rapport had taken him completely unawares like the first time he had put the Amulet of Kings around his neck. This time however, it had been like being hit with a mallet. Whose memories had he seen? Whose thoughts and feelings shared? But it didn't matter: The message sent by the entrapped souls in the Amulet had been all too clear – fight for your own or perish.

He tried to jump up but was pushed back onto his bed by Calda's strong hands.

“What is it, Your Highness?!”, Viggo asked urgently over his colleague's shoulder.

“Run after the Champion!”, Martin gasped finally. “Tell him to return _immediately_.”

“But, Your Majesty”, the man said meekly, “the Champion has left hours ago.”

 

 


	4. Delaying Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This is the chapter that forced me to accept that this story will take longer than the originally intended 5 chapters for telling. Not because I take pleasure in depicting Martin as the Moody Bastard he is in this chapter but because suddenly a wild addition to a subplot appeared and wouldn't let itself be shooed off. Back to the drawing board, I guess. ^^;  
> This is also the chapter that made me include an Off-Screen Blowjob into it. Damn my muse who came up with a reasonable explanation for the necessity of said act and damn the writers in Oblivion who made Martin have a Past With Sanguine, which hurled me down this path. XD (Just when I was wishing to, just for once, keep sex out of a story.)
> 
> You have been warned.

An icy wind howled down the High Jerrals and drove clouds of dry snow ahead of it. While down in the Heartland autumn was just painting the last leaves red and gold, winter had the mountains around Bruma already in a vice-like grip. Everyone and everything that could, hid away in warm houses or underground lairs, curling on itself and trying to stay warm. The only creatures still roaming the desolate ice-fields were the desperately hungry or the desperately stupid.

Since he was well-fed he must belong to the latter category, Martin Septim thought with a sarcastic smile when he stepped out into the courtyard of Bruma's North Gate, leading his saddled palfrey on a jewelled holster. His other hand pulled his hood deeper into his face and he tried in vain to draw some warmth from the expensive furs which lined his otherwise unadorned cloak.

He listened with dread to the wind howling around a broken arrow-slit. There was nothing for it. He mounted his horse, and heard Calda do the same behind him. He always took only Calda with him on these bi-daily rides. This left him vulnerable to an attack if they should happen to cross some rogue beast or goblin but he rather had as few people as possible knowing about the destination of these rides.

The gale was at his cloak the instant he left the gatehouse's cover, whipping the heavy material here and there and stealing every bit of warmth Martin had been able to conjure up and made him swear under his breath. A few metres further and he felt as if his ears were going to freeze. Now was the time to regret, if not all his life-choices, but then certainly those who let him choose frost-spells as his forte in Destruction. A hundred metres away from the city walls, when even the shacks of woodcutters and day-talers lay past him, his hands started to get numb and he kicked his horse into a canter down the frozen road leading north. There was a small copse of firs he wanted to reach before he became an icicle.

“Where to now, Your Grace?”, Calda yelled over the whistling gales when they had reached the scant tree-cover and Martin had reigned in his horse.

Oh, how he wished he could just say _'Northwards until we reach Cloudruler Temple'_! But he knew he couldn't run and hide and wait until this crisis was over. His time at Cloudruler was a thing of the past and Jauffre dead and buried and the Champion south somewhere, in Black Marsh, trying to prevent a war with murder.

Would he ever be free again of guilt?

“The runestones”, he called back to Calda and nudged his horse further. One or two leagues further north, hidden in a small valley, stood a circle of broken-down, moss-covered monoliths. Scholars called them Reman's Runestones but did not bother to explain why. They were supposed to be magical but during his former visit there Martin had felt nothing remotely arcane about the stones apart from faintly glowing carvings on the rough surface. But glow-in-the-dark-runes were of little concern to him as he peered into the gloomy shadows beneath the firs and tried to espy the messenger who was supposed to meet him here.

As always, the stones nestled against aged evergreens, seemingly melting into their form, and the land around the little copse was life-less and empty. Nothing betrayed even the slightest change since he had been here the last time, or even since he had last spoken to his informant.

Martin gave Calda a signal to stay behind as soon as the had reached the edge of the small wood, then dismounted and circled the small ring of stones. The wind was still howling, everything else was still.

“Your Grace.” A whisper as small as a mouse's cough sounded on his left but it still made him jump. He spun around, hands half-way through a protection spell, as he saw the familiar glint of a Blade's uniform under a dark green cloak.

“Crispin”, he greeted the spy in return. He waved a hand impatiently as the Blade made to bow and asked: “Do you have news?”

“Yes.”

Martin was handed a sealed and waxed wooden tube and slipped it into a pocket. “The gist of it, your Grace, is that Caro is planning more than just raising the fees for ships bound for the Imperial City. He has taken the Blackwood Company and others of their ilk into his services – under the pretext of adhering to your orders that not one Legion Soldier is to be used on patrols in Leyawiin hinterland. The fake Champion has vanished. He was last seen attending an evening banquet with the count and countess and several honoured guests. This was four days ago. Since then reports of his whereabouts are flaky – some say he is still in Castle Leyawiin, tended to by the castle healer or the castle torturer, some say he has gone to lead the Legion in the Lower Niben and others again say that he said he was going to slay sea-drakes in the Topal Bay.”

Martin hmph'ed as sign that he had heard. “So, most likely, Caro has him in custody and will soon know that he is not the real Champion. If he doesn't know already.”

“We have also established that the occurrences in Border Watch were linked to a religious festival which got out of hand”, Crispin continued. “Someone apparently invoked Sheogorath.”

“The fools.”

“There is also a new report of the Water's Edge incident.”

“In short?”

“Findings point to Goblins as cause for the killings. It remains unsolved why they didn't carry off the life-stock, though.”

“What does Caro say about this?”

“Nothing, Your Grace.”

“What?!” How was this possible? Not one, but two villages in County Leyawiin had been destroyed in recent weeks, both directly located along the roads which the Imperial Legion Martin had sent down there patrolled. This had to be a perfect opportunity for Count Caro to demand more Legion support again and this time the Elder Council might even be convinced of his plight and overrule Martin's decision. They _could_ do that. Could it be that Caro did not see this possibility?

Martin shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was not important.

“Any news from Blackmarsh finally?”, he asked with a sinking feeling in his gut.

“In the tube, Sire. Sealed that only your touch can open it and only your eyes can see it.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Crispin bowed and stepped behind a standing stone, vanishing so thoroughly as if the earth had swallowed him whole.

 

Back in his quarters in Bruma Castle Martin went straight to his bedroom, shedding boots, gloves and cloak along the way, knowing that someone would clean up after him. His fingers trembled when he broke the seal and shook the tightly rolled parchment out of the tube. His eyes flew over the seemingly empty sheaf, not taking in much details on the first go and only slowing down enough in the second reading to take in the particulars.

Taking everything into account, the mission went as planned although a bit slower now that winter-rains turned Blackmarsh into a real swamp. The Champion and his team had infiltrated some cities and regional centres, they had spoken with spiritual and political leaders, they had even managed to get a woman into Blackrose prison and assess the situation there. The Legion which travelled a good half-week after them had also slowed down and gone to camp in and around the cities along Blackmarsh's northern borders. Only small fights with local war-lords or bandit groups were reported.

Martin exhaled.

Not the disaster he had anticipated. Not the full-out slaughter he had feared. He allowed himself a moment of careful optimism that the Champion's plan might work.

A knock on his door made him look up in time to see Viggo enter with a carafe of wine and a covered plate. On a wink of Martin's he put both down on a table next to the fireplace before walking up to Martin himself who was still immersed in the Champion's letter.

“Is there anything else you need, Sire?”

“I'm all set”, Martin said and half-turned to the Breton. What he saw on the Breton's face made him turn around fully, his gaze carefully guarded.

“What do you want?”, Martin asked coolly. He thought, he had made it clear that he was not looking for a companion … His gaze fell down to the Viggo's hands and travelled back up to his face, lingering on his throat and his mouth. His look reached the other man's eyes eventually. He was so close that Martin could see the brown flecks in Viggo's green eyes.

“This is not about what _I_ want”, the Breton whispered in a voice that sent a shiver down Martin's spine. “But is there something _you_ want?”, he asked sultrily. “Something else you might desire besides food and drink?”

 _Do I desire something?_ , Martin asked himself hazily. His gaze wandered back down along Viggo's body. _When do I not desire things?_ But there was one question Martin needed to know the answer to first.

“Who do you think I am?” he asked flatly.

Viggo looked him straight in the eyes, for once not smirking or lifting a brow in mock salute. “One, who has stood at the brink of the chasm”, Viggo said in a whisper the kind of which Martin had not heard for many years and which made him shiver with want, “and _let himself fall in_.”

_Ah._

“Yes”, Martin simply said. He turned his face away as Viggo leaned in for a kiss but when the Breton's hands moved down his robe, deftly undoing buttons and lacing, he let himself fall back against his desk. The Champion's letter fell disregarded to the floor as the former Arena fighter went down on his knees and took him in and Martin had to grip the edge of the table for support.

 

„And?“ Calda asked without looking up from the dagger she was sharpening.

“Nothing”, Viggo said and threw himself into an armchair. There was a visible bulge between his legs. He squirmed around in his seat but didn’t seem to find a comfortable position. “What!?” he snapped as Calda looked down at him with pursed lips.

“What you’re doing – it’s unnatural”, she said derisively, indicating with every syllable that she thought his discomfort fully justified.

“What do _you_ know?” He sneered. “You Nords would all rather fuck an axe-handle than another human being.” He stood up, adjusted his trousers with a grip, and wrenched the door open which separated the Emperor’s suite from the rest of the castle. “I’ll blow off some steam. See you in the morning.”

 

It took Martin ages to go to sleep and when he finally succumbed to it his dreams were plagued by the writhing bodies and dancing fires he had not seen for a decade. It was a relief when Calda knocked at his door in the early hours of morning for service in the Great Chapel of Talos.

The freezing morning air refreshed him more than the four hours of fitful sleep last night, although he had little trouble staying awake during the actual sermon when the Primate, Arentus Falvius, preached from the altar as if he was battling the heathen gods he so despised himself. Martin amused himself shortly by thinking about what his ancestor would have thought about this elderly man, in his courtly garments and velvet slippers, singing the praise of Talos. But all too soon his thoughts returned to his troubles returned and he found himself wishing fervently for guidance from the ascended man who had founded the Empire Martin was so desperately trying to hold together.

_But I have received it already, haven't I?_

Everything inside him shuddered in revulsion when he thought back to the vision the Chim-el Adabal had shown him. Was taking up arms against his subjects, the people he had sworn to lead to a better life, really the only way open to him? But what counsel could he expect from the souls of Emperors and Empresses who had cut their way through history with sword and mace and plastered the ground with bodies? Violence and warfare was all _they_ had known and thus it was the only advice they could give.

The sermon closed and Martin crossed the hall for a small prayer in the small alcove which held the shrine to Stendarr, who's compassion had been the only blessing he had known when still the son of a farmer. If the seed refused to grow and if the tax-collectors refused leniency, Stendarr's Mercy had come often enough in the shape of a bowl of warm gruel when everywhere else shortage and hunger were cook. Maybe Stendarr's compassion stretched even to former Deadra-worshippers who now had a duty on their hands they had never been trained for?

Martin could only hope.

As usual, a gaggle of town-folk was waiting for their turn at prayer at the temple when the inhabitants of the castle and their guards left the chapel. As usual, Martin's appearance started a cacophony of praises and pleas alike. He straightened his back and put on a benevolent mien as he stepped down the stairs into the glitteringly cold Bruma morning and the hot despair he felt every time he in the small-folk's petitions to him.

The Champion had once advised him to disguise himself on his way to and from service or to cease praying at the common Temples at all, but Martin would not hear anything of it. He was painfully aware of the false hopes for salvation his presence evoked in the common people but he could not bring himself to deny them even this.

“M'lord, hear me out … killed by Bandits … left behind in Oblivion … where is … Justice …”

His guardsmen cleared a way for him to step through and he walked up the frozen walkways and stone-levels of the city as hurriedly as he dared.

He could not help them.

His bailiffs, the temples and the guild-houses were under order to feed and shelter those who asked for it and give loan from the imperial treasury for those who had lost their living. He could see to it that his subjects were clothed and fed and that they could live in peace.

Apart from that he could not help them.

He was halfway through his antechamber, leaving his guards in front of heavy double doors, and in process of shedding several layers of cloth before he realized that the room was already occupied. His hand flew automatically to his hip and the short-sword that sat there in its ornate scabbard before he recognized the intruder. Unfortunately, this made things only that much more unpleasant.

“Councillor Eironwae”, he said aghast and relaxed slightly. He kept his hand at the sword-hilt, though, feeling loathe to let it go, and he knew the tall Altmer noticed it. With a conscious effort of will Martin let his hand fall and continued to shrug out of his coat while he observed how the councillor stood up and bowed with the grace born out of a court-life that spanned several human life-times.

“Your Grace”, the mer said in a voice like silver bells.

As always when in the presence of this epitome of Altmer nobility breeding, Martin felt like a midget. It made his next words all the more frosty.

“What do you want?”

“What I want is nothing of concern, my Lord”, Eironwae said smoothly and lifted his hands, palms up, to show that he had nothing to hide. Martin took an involuntary half-step backwards. “I am here on the wish and behalf of two of your most trusted advisers.” Eironwae slipped one hand into his robes and pulled it out again, holding a small roll of parchment. With a slight bow of his head he offered it to Martin who broke the seal on it cautiously.

A note from Ocato.

Martin felt a slow smile spread over his face as he read the warm greetings the Altmer High Councillor sent before his letter dove into the matter that Martin still needed to name a new Imperial Battlemage, now that Ocato himself was touring the Summerset Isles on imperial business and that, until the day the trials could be held, Lord Eironwae would be at Martin's disposal as intermediate Imperial Battlemage. If he accepted him.

A passage caught Martin's particular interest.

“You have really resigned your seat in the Elder Council?”

“Yes.”

“Before you knew if I accepted you into my service?”

“It appears to be so.”

“To avoid a conflict of interest?”, Martin asked.

“For the time-being”, Eironwae admitted. He fastened his piercing gaze on Martin who broke the stare and turned away to pour himself a cup of watered wine. He heard a soft rustle of robes behind him as Eironwae turned around to keep him in his sight. “I expect to be reinstated to my hereditary seat in due time”, the mer added with soft assuredness. “What are a few decades for someone like myself?”

“Or a few days”, Martin could not stop himself adding.

He saw Eironwae incline his head from the corner of his eye. “Or that”, he conceded. Nothing seemed to faze him, Martin noticed again with disgust and felt his jaw clench. Eironwae's expression, his demeanour – everything was smooth and rounded and so flawless as a mirror which reflected everything you threw at it but revealed nothing of itself in return. The presence of such a polished person made Martin's skin crawl and his fingers itch.

The mer meanwhile appeared to be pensive for a moment before he spoke up again.

“I know that it is not my place to offer plain speech to you without being asked for it first but I noticed that you prefer it to the art of conversation which is normally expected of courtiers such as myself.”

Martin growled: “Yes. Now get to the point.”

He could not be sure but he thought he saw a smile twitch at the mer's lips but it was gone as fast as lightning, erased mercilessly as the tall Altmer continued his speech: “I wish to speak to you about places, my Lord. About the right places to be and about the right people to occupy those. I know that you harbour resentments against me which stem from my fervent objections against you as Emperor.”

Martin turned away and poured himself another cup, mainly because he wanted to hide his anger at Eironwae's frank confession. He knew full well that Eironwae was one of his loudest adversaries and that his council held much, much more weight than that of those who would give someone like Martin a chance.

“The Elder Council is in fact the ruling body of the Empire”, the mer continued speaking to his turned back. “You know the saying, I am sure, that the Emperor rules but the Elder Council handles all the details? That is its task and the task of its members. But this task also entails advise for the Emperor, should he seek it, or adversary for him should he follow ideas that will threaten the peace and prosperity of the realm.”

Martin shot around to him with a thunderous expression. “Don't you dare! You _will not_ justify your conduct in Council-sessions by heaping the blame on me!”

“Then I will not”, Eironwae said levelly. “I will not say that the perceived indecisiveness and political floundering of the Emperor invites malcontents to sever their ties with the throne. I will also refrain from hinting that several local rulers in his Empire have voiced considerable concerns regarding the socio-economic changes the Emperor has proposed. And I will most surely not point out that the Legion Commander wonders how he can prevent a complete breakdown of law and order if swineherds from the West Weald get it into their heads to behave like their Betters.”

Martin snorted. “Same old, same old”, he said derisively. “Like a good little Emperor I should've donned my plate and mail already and marched on a jolly roundabout crusade to bring anyone back to heel who dares to even think of secession and cow the rest into servitude.” He laughed joylessly. “You do realize, _m'lord_ , that this would eventually and undeniably include your own eternally springtimed and goldenmisted Summerset Isles? Do you really want another Tiber Septim at Alinor's gates? I admit, Brass Golems are a little bit hard to come by these days but I might manage to rustle up a dragon or two.” His voice, having risen during the last sentence to a hysterical pitch fell to a growl as he concluded: “Think about that, Ambassador, before you talk to me again about doing things the old way.”

Martin had the satisfaction of seeing the mer's eyebrows furrow. He turned around and stalked to the door, desperate to put as much space between himself and the Altmer as was physically possible. He stopped when he heard the faint rustle of silk robes behind him.

“What do you think you're doing?”, he snapped.

“Following you in my duty as Imperial Battlemage.”

“You stay where you are. I don't need yet another hireling stalking after me.”

“Your Grace –“

“Leave it!”, Martin ordered. “Ocato and the Champion vouch for you – that's your only saving grace. Make yourself useful and do some magic but _leave me alone!_ ” He pulled the door open and stormed through it, being only faintly aware of Viggo and Calda falling into step behind him.

 


End file.
